Sand Rants
by TIG-DriveSHAFT
Summary: First chapter up and ready to go - mainly focuses on a current Charlie trip and background info as of now. Moi j'adore reviews!


Bleh... this is my first time trying to write out what goes on during a drug induced trip, and seeing as how I have no knowledge on the subject – my apologies if it does indeed royally blow.

**Disclaimer**: I, in no way shape or form own or am the creator of the following characters mentioned, plots, storyline, etc. etc. Especially not the incredibly lickable Charlie, who is the wonderful creation of J.J. Abrams.

Reviews are always welcome!

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A hand. His actually, though the realization came rather late. It fascinated him in the sense that he had broken down in such a short amount of time...that he now had as much power over his fingers as he did his life. Of all the variables in his short life that he would have thought to be uncontrollable, his hand would not have been one of them.

_Such weakness._

"Weak," he slurred, the voice unnaturally low as the heroine reached the climax point. Here, in the dark, no euphoria overtook him. Loneliness and self loathing were his only playmates now, and he had no control over his hand to push them away.

_So alone. Who knows what you have spoken to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all your life seems to shrink..._

He felt the sand against his cheek as the voice whispered evil things he did not want to hear; the warming of one side of his body as the other chilled in the midnight air. The moon above his head flickered slowly and languidly, a laughable excuse of a midnight tent. Claire. Claire was gone. He missed the elegant curve of her back and the golden locks upon the sand. She had left him nearly half a day ago. Time slipped through his logic and melted upon the ground. She was always out of his grasp.

He lifted his hand from the sand, the muscles tensing spasmodically before settling back down into numbness. Pale moonlight illuminated the blackened fingertips – how long ago had he colored them in? Before the flight, a decade ago it seemed. A sharpie at a hotel, the girl, her name he did not remember, watching him from under the bed sheets, a cigarette dangling from her lip. Meaningless. Calloused fingertips, so rough! she had complained. Twenty years or more of plucking strings, creating a language that he could be known for. That had been the first buzz he had ever received, as the deep bass tones resonated throughout his limbs. The buzz had changed significantly.

Cuts on his fingers, down to the knuckle. Faded now, yet bright once, some had been intentional, more had not been. Who knew what he had thought during those trips, who knew why or how they had gotten there. Most of the time he woke up to a new day with them. He had taken the cigarette from that pretty mouth, run his too rough fingers over those lips. A question had arisen of where the scars came from, and he retreated.

A trembling gasp breached his throat, though where it had come from was a mystery. His legs curled further towards his stomach, a child-like position vulnerable to every taunt imaginable. If only Sawyer could see him now.

The tape came next. His eyes traveled over the tape. FATE. LATE. HATE. KATE. A gurgled laugh as his hand fell back into the sand. It was stopped short though; the unnaturally inappropriate sound cut off in his throat, the gasp and laugh combining into a choking sob that went no further than a noise.

_Coward. Weak._

He would not cry though. It was something that did not happen anymore.

Trembling uncontrollably now, hand quivering in the cooling sand as his eyes caught glimpse of Claire silhouetted upon the beach . If only. If only he could reach out. Touch her, just a simple touch of the flesh. He latched onto the idea, mind feverish as the heroine began leaving his system. She would stable him. Her calmness, grace, stability, courage. He knew, he knew that it could flow from her to him. A simple touch. It was all he needed, yet the one thing he didn't know how to do.

On his back, his leg muscles twitched, a horrible feeling of realizing what he was wrapped itself around his mind. He rolled slowly, elbows touching the sand in a half-hearted attempt not to crawl his way to Claire in a dog-like manner. He wanted to run his too rough hands along those lips of hers, she wouldn't question the long-faded scars. A moment passed in a confused mind-set as something tried to penetrate the heroine soaked ideas that ran throughout his mind. _You can't crawl to her you stupid bloke. She's at least 100 yards away and enjoying this pleasant evening without some dipshit making his way to her, ranting about long ago birds he'd picked up at a hotel. Think dammit. Just this once._

It wasn't the best idea, no. Withering muscles spasms took over him as he let himself sit still, consciously aware of the blood pumping through him. So slow.

A fire burned in the distance, real this time. Insomniacs straggled near the edges, staring transfixed at the flames as they licked once-sturdy logs. A single puff of air and the ash went flying, though it had once been rooted in the ground. What was the time, he wondered. Nobody knew anymore. Except the psychotic Asian with the twenty-thousand dollar watch. Meaningless. Just like that lovely girls name.

He had lain with her there for the longest time, listening hard until he could hear his own heartbeat in the darkness, her head resting upon his chest. She wore a DriveSHAFT shirt, and for some reason he remembered wishing that he could not see his face staring at him from her back. His fingertips pattered down her spinal cord, covering Charlie Pace, who, for some reason, was grinning.

A guttural sigh and he tried vaguely to grab hold of the sand, but it slipped through his fingers. A moment later it was replaced by her hair, and another painful wave rippled through him as he realized what was about to come. Bad trips often led him to her. Clamoring upon his knees, the ground sucked him back down, bed sheets tangled around his legs in an eerily snake-like way. Coldness came, how long had it been since she stopped breathing – his breath caught in his throat, ripping his vocal muscles. Water glinted in his eyes, the snapping on of a lamp burned his vision. On the floor, in the water, Her hand limp – his hand shakes, another hand stretched – someone touched his shoulder.

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Reviews are always welcome! Especially if you have any suggestions on whom you want it to be who is currently grabbing Charlie's shoulder. Flamers also welcome, wildly amusing.


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